Dreams from beyond the walls
by MiGe
Summary: The only way to break the walls in Houses mind, is to break Houses mind.Some graphic death in dreams. No pairing, at least not at the moment. But Houses bestest buddy is in place.
1. Chapter 1

So, this is my very first fanfiction. Written on zero sleep, and enough painmeds to kill a horse.

There are some graphic dream death-scenes in this, So if you do not like blood and ripped out tongues, do avoid.

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**Dreams from beyond the wall**_**  
**_

_**Chapter I  
The dreams of life not lived well  
**_

_The bathroom tiles seemed crispy white, against the stream of blood. The liquid of life running down the pale arm of a lifeless form, and further downward to the i__ndistinguishable__ picture, that was grasped in a grip of death. Her head leaned against the white porcelain of the bathtub, and her open eyes were like a dark hole of emptiness and hopelessness. Dirty blond hair with bloody marks, from where her already cold hand had removed it from her eyes, to see more clearly, when she wrote her last message. And on the wall above her head, were written three words by shaky fingers, the blood running thick, and it looked like they were taken directly from a bad horror flick.  
**She left me. **_

_ Still spinning in his daughters scotch rope, his tongue stuck, halfway bitten of, between his chalk white teeth. The eyes bulging out, despair and anger shining out like a still photograph of his last seconds. Blood was running down the pale face, from the words etched into his forehead with a stale penknife, __**No God.**_

_The human lay stretched out on the ground, next to its disfigured hand. The axe, with which the human had performed its own ruthless amputation, was held in the right fist, with a grip that never wanted to let go. Blood everywhere, like a fountain of red, it had sprayed the snow-covered ground, and the snow seemed more innocent then ever, against the red marks from a lost life. One word was hastily written, with a bloody tongue ripped out of its owner's mouth: __**Madness.**_

_The empty stare from the girl's head should have looked sparkling and curious to the new world. The head is rested in the mothers lap, and the child's nails are stuck in the cold floor, scratched down hard and surprised, when the unexpected blow fell. The mother, even in death her eyes fixed upon her daughters face, is grasping a note in her left hand. __**If we can't escape a world of darkness, I choose a world without knowledge, despair and hate, only safety in eternal slumber.**_

These were the dreams that every single night awoke Greg House, from sleep never deep and always painful. These were the dreams that every night turned the usually stoic and untouchable doctor into a shivering wreck. These were the dreams that represented the worst of his not so joyful and depressing life.

Once he had told his best, and only friend, Doctor James Wilson, about the dreams. They were already more than a little tipsy, but it was only in this state Greg House felt vaguely comfortable sharing even a little of his complex inner life. It was in a state like this he had told the oncologist about his grief about Stacy leaving, how vulnerable and useless he felt with the pain never leaving and even some parts of his not so happy relationship with his demanding father.

Wilson, for once drunker than his friend, took on his best psychology look, and said way to slowly, and with to much thought:

"The white obviously represents the innocence of your childhood, destroyed with every whip of the belt, and every night sleeping alone and cold, and every drop of blood spilt by the hand of the man that should have loved you the most." Then he fell asleep, his head leaning against the back of the sofa, one hand in his lap, and the other, strangely enough, on his best buddy's knee. House placed chips in each of Jimmy's nostrils, and went to bed, with a feeling of dread, and unease, in his stomach.

He awoke, as always a shivering mess, way to early the next morning. A short burst of joy entered his mind as he realized he, strangely enough, were hangover free. He dry swallowed two vicodin, and waited for the pain to stop. And a thought came to him. He diagnosed people, cured them. So, if he could diagnose his drams, maybe he could cure his sleep. But only in his head should these "symptoms of a wrecked soul" come forth. He chuckled shortly at the thought of his duckling's faces, as he wrote those symptoms on the white board, baring himself to the world.

He tried to recount the dreams in his mind, starting with the one in the bathroom. He had always had a great imagination, and every single vivid detail appeared in his mind. _Drops of blood slipping slowly from a finger, the finger marked by a wedding band used for a long time, but no more. Moist, red lips, once so kissable, though no more, the thought of her lips pressed against his own disgusted him, but he couldn't stop other macabre notions from invading his mind. His long piano fingers cradling her white breasts, the pink nipples, with dark veins all to petruding, unresponding to the gentle caress. Palm of his hand gently stroking, gliding down her stomach, till it rested just below her bellybutton, under the line of water. He turned his gaze at the lifeless face, staring deeply into the dead and empty eyes. And her face started shifting, Stacy, Cuddy, Ellen, his mother, Cameron, Lizzy, Katy, Amanda, his father, Chase, Foreman, Betty, stopping suddenly at Wilson's face, but without his deep brown eyes, the dark dead orbs remained unchanged from face to face. Staring lifeless, empty like there were no one there. And in death, you truly are alone. _

_Than he felt the skin under his hands dissolving, the body turning into red mush beneath his agile fingertips. Red flooded everywhere, the white tiles turning to a dark, moist red, the words _she left me_ on the bathroom wall melting, expanding, filling the room with blood. The room quickly filled with the foul-smelling mass of human remains. Increasingly, over his knees, his hips, elbow deep, shoulders, neck, the slimy substance filling his mouth, nose, eyes. He felt a hand grip his, a paper pressed into the palm of his hand. The room suddenly empty, pure white light threatening to blind him. He turns his attention to the paper in his hand, a photograph showing him the image of long repressed memories._

And he could help himself no more. Death he could take, the human matter filling him, drowning him he could handle, but this! He filled his lungs with air in a frightful gasp, and released all anger, all tension, all sorrow from a soul crushed by a life of mental and physical pain, in a scream that shattered every wall in his mind.

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So, thats it for now folks. Please let me know if you would like me to continue. Constructive criticism is very welcome. And now, to sleep.

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	2. Chapter 2

So, hi again. Since my doctor has kindly requested of me not to move my sorry ass for at least two days, lest I wanted the extreme pleasure of drowning in my own lungs, I thought; what the heck, lets write some more!

Thanks for the kind reviews, I dedicate this chapter to you guys.

Before you start let me apologize for any errors in this fic, Im more drugged than House on a bad (good) day, and my hands are kinda shaking. And as you probably realized a long time ago, I am not from any English speaking country.

And, by the way, I do not own House, I think, I might be in error on this, I so often am.

So, on with the story

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**_Chapter II  
_The day he stopped laughing **

Wilson realized the instant he opened his eyes that this was going to be a crappy day. He awoke on a extremely lumpy sofa, crick in the neck, a hangover from hell and two disgusting soggy chips squashed in each nostril, the ketchup and salt making him itch and sneeze, and the nauseating smell from the now inedible foodstuff not making his stomach any happier.

He had just risen, chips removed and vengefully stuffed in House's slippers, when he heard the scream. Jimmy had heard Greg scream many a time before: wailing in pain, when the muscle of his thigh burned and agonized beneath skin stretched in arduous cramps. Screaming in fright, when three guys, many years ago, had approached James with baseball bats, cracking open his scull and crushing his chest, with House held in a tight grip with tears running down his face. Yelping for joy, when Wilson told him about his first impending marriage, dragging him to a bar, smiling and buying Wilson enough drinks to intoxicate an elephant.

But, that was long ago, House had grown quiet now. If Wilson had told the ducklings this, they would snigger and laugh like it was a bad joke, "House quiet." But Jimmy remembered what they could not, the old Greg, constantly loud and so full of life, always singing, laughing with loud barks that could almost deafen you. The old Greg House rode life like a rollercoaster. And like he always informed his shyer friend, every time they heard the ominous clicking of a rollercoaster wagon about to be released: "Jimmy, loosen up, the ride is no fun if your not screaming your lungs out!"

But then came the day, three months after the clot that almost took his friend away, and a mere two weeks since Stacy left, when Wilson informed Greg about his second wedding, heart sinking in his chest when all he got in return was a weak smile and a shake of the hand. But Jimmy's heart not only broke, but also completely shattered when the third wedding was fast approaching, and his best friend just sneered at him, and mocked him mercilessly.

But this awful inhuman noise! He had never heard a more terrifying sound in his entire life, a life filled with patients in agonizing torments. He panicked, and froze; hyperventilating for what seemed like hours, but in reality was a mere minute. Then the scream ended with a soundless bang, and Wilson stormed into the bedroom of his best friend.

House was lying in his bed, so quiet, that for the two most awful seconds of the oncologist's life, he thought House to be dead. Then he saw his eyes. House's electrifying blue eyes portrayed so much fear and anguish, that he could not be dead. This was the gaze of eyes pained by life, not the empty stare of eyes in peaceful death. James was overcome with a strange emotion of relief and terror, and while trying to shake his best buddy to world of the living, and at the same time calling 911, a thought quickly filled his mind, and twisted his heart. If the eyes truly are windows to the soul, Greg's soul must be an inferno of agony.

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Thats it for now, I guess. Constructive criticism is extremely welcome. 


	3. Chapter 3

I have now received some knew evidence that claims that I do not own House. I am shocked and appalled! So you can read this while Ill try to come up with some clever scheme to make House mine.

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Chapter III  
_**Even the dead weep in his presence**_

_The dead child was crying, the red stumps of her fingertips futilely scratching the floor, like she was trying to protest against her unfair fate. House knew her death had been fast and painless, the stone mortar used by the mother too crack the child's head, was big and heavy. The mother, on the other hand, had chosen the long and painful path, like it would somehow make up for the cruel way she had taken the youngsters life. The right wrist was slit open, yet not slit, gnawed open were a more correct term. And in a flashback, House saw the mother placing her mouth above the pulsing vein, biting down through skin and flesh, eating and sucking her own life away._

_And without moving (in his head hearing Wilson with another horrible physics joke, if House had the ability to take quantum leaps, his bum leg wouldn't (be) matter), he was kneeling at the mother's side, his mouth replacing hers, and with loud slurping noises, like he was eating something delicious, feasting on the rotting flesh. His eyes closed, he suddenly felt a tongue circling the inner of his ear. Moaning loudly, he felt himself hardening. But shortly after blue eyes jolted open when teeth started ripping off his long earlobe. He threw himself backwards, and when painfully hitting the wall behind him, he felt, more then saw, the scene again changing._

_He now found himself, sitting, leaning against the wall, the dead child laughing and cooing in his arms. He stared at her, mesmerized by the child's beauty, even in death. And then the dark, dead orbs suddenly disappeared, leaving two sparkling blue eyes, staring up at him, full of love, and something he couldn't quite pinpoint, like the knowledge that he, the misanthropic Gregory House, would protect her against all evil. He startled awake from his hypnotic trance, throwing the child as hard as he could against the floor. It hit the wooden planks with a disgusting crack, the eyes at once reclaiming its dead form and the fingers again scratching the floor, morbid red trails appearing._

_Greg curled himself into fetal position, not even marveling about the fact that the leg were indeed pain free, clutching his eyes closed so hard it felt like they were burning. But this did nothing to comfort his suffering soul. Behind his closed eyes did the cursed photograph appear. His fear and horror releasing itself, in short painful gasps, the picture did not go away. On the colorful paper, mocking him with a happy smile, was a twelve year old Greg, perched on a windowsill, and on his lap, in a frilly pink dress, were a three year old girl, dark hair painstakingly placed in two ponytails, with love and happiness shining clearly out of her sparkling blue eyes._

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Wilson could help himself no longer; he let the tears that had been threatening to fall, since he heard that terrible scream, slide gingerly down his cheeks. Physically, there was nothing wrong with his friend, yet for two days had he been lying there, eyes never closing, just staring at the roof, with a look that was always seeing something so dreadful, Wilson didn't even dare too start imagine it.

The only other person to enter the hospital room, except the nurse that once every two hours came in to moisturize House's eyes so they would not dry out, was Cuddy. She silently entered the room twice a day, saying nothing, she just stood by Greg's bed, staring at him with tear stained eyes, then quickly exiting, carefully touching Wilson's shoulder on the way out.

House's underlings, he imagined, dared not to enter the room to see their steadfast bastard of a boss, in such a weakened state. He suspected that they didn't even fully comprehend the idea, even slightly suspecting that this was one of House's elaborate jokes. Even Wilson, felt this at some point, Greg was the only person he knew who'd be willing to stay unmoving for 48 hours just to kid with him, and the only person with a twisted enough mind to find it funny. But Wilson also knew that House never would display such weakness in his eyes in front of other people, even for a laugh. And, he chuckled to himself, House willingly going two days without Vicodin and booze! That would be the day.

Then he started crying again, feeling even worse for joking on his deep sleeping friend's behalf, when he was in torture next to him. He leaned his head on his friend's chest, whispering softly:

"Wake up, Greg. I need you. Ill even come with you on that stupid, life threatening motorbike trip to Vegas."

But the only answer he got was the shallow breaths, and steady heartbeats of his slumbering comrade. _God_, Wilson thought grimly_. Anything is better then this, him yelling at me for lying straight to his face, him laughing at the cruel jokes told on my behalf, even him screaming in terror and pain. Anything at all that would let me know that he is still in there, and not entirely possessed by his tortured soul._

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I hadnt really planned any pairings in this story, but then again I never plan anything. Now I am considering it, so if you think I should have some kind of pairing in this, please let me know. Also what kind of pairing you think would fit. Im game for anything. Except Hane. 


	4. Chapter 4

So, another chapter. Hope you will like it.

And my evil planed failed, and I still do not own House. I am devastated.

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_**Chapter 4  
Escaping your fathers footsteps **  
_

_The man, hanging from his neck in a bright pink scotch rope, shared many of the same features as Greg's father. His dark angry eyes starred at Greg, with a terrifying look of malice. His voice was like that of a commander in the army, or a strict father disciplining his disobedient child, and yet it was alluring and inviting:_

"_Come on son, hang yourself up next to me, it's the only way too get the straight back the army deserves and expects."_

_Another rope fell from the roof, dangling right above Gregory's head. He suddenly was a seven-year-old boy again, standing in front of his father while the old man was ranting and raving about the greatness of the marines. Gregory just stood there, eyes filling slowly with tears, his legs exhausted after standing in attention for three hours straight. And all the time he wanted too scream that he did not wish too be a damn marine, he wanted to be a doctor. But he dared not, afraid of the horror that would be bound to follow such a disgraceful remark. And his father just kept on screaming about honour._

"_You are never going to be a real man, staying in your room all the time, reading those fucking books and listening too that fagot music. …And are you crying, you stinking piece of shit. You are such a good damn girl, you are never gonna amount to anything. I never thought it possible to despise anyone more than those motherfucking gooks, but congratulations, kid, you just proved me wrong. Get out and run 10 laps round the house, before I no longer can hold my anger, and beat that sorry ass of yours so bad, that no bloody queer are ever gonna be able to fuck you up your sorry ass!"_

_With a quick salute and a weak, sir, yes sir, Gregory ran out the house, as swiftly as his tender seven-year-old legs would carry him, stiff from standing as straight as an arrow for more then 200 minutes. Out in the darkness, rain and storm, running round, and round, till he collapsed in the mud face down. He didn't even bother to get up, he knew his father wouldn't let him into the house again, claiming that some real experience might sharpen the boy up. Gregory was just thankful that his fathers teaching this time did not include hanging him from the roof by his wrists, "It's the only thing that's ever gonna straighten up your weak girly back!"_

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Wilson had in the end, no longer able to sustain his bodily odour and greasy hair, gone home to shower and change. The warm spray from the shower eased the pains in his back and shoulder, from first sleeping in the sofa from hell, (he sometimes suspected Greg had stuffed it with rocks and pebbles, just to make him suffer), and then spending three days straight in, that now despised, hospital chair. He had changed into scrubs a few hours after Greg was admitted, since his clothes reeked of sleep, whiskey, sweat and hamburgers, but he still was covered in an uncomfortable flimmer of stench, a constant reminder of those last happy hours.

He packed an overnight bag, and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with the words: _Vah! Denuone latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur, _printed in front. Greg had forgotten it as his place some time ago, and now it seemed the only way he could feel close to him, stupid as it may feel, (and look, in that dreadful tasteless t-shirt, in red and green).

He walked in Greg's door 40 minutes later to see Cameron standing beside House's bed, looking forlorn and with a look of mind-blowing sadness in her eyes. He froze by the door, uncertain as to how he should react to this. He knew Cameron still harboured strong feelings for his buddy, and he knew how House felt about those feelings; only disdain and annoyance. So when Cameron leaned down, and gently grazed House's lips with her own, doctor James Wilson finally snapped. The strain and stress of the last few days cracked open his mind, and let the seldom seen Jimmy appear, the Jimmy that only House had a close acquaintance too. With a growl, he leaped forward, and slapped Allison Cameron hard across the face. The wetness and redness of her cheeks, now multiplied with ten, she gave Jimmy a look of hurt that would have made James Wilson kneel before her, and beg fot her forgiveness, but only managed to increase Jimmy's rage tenfold.

"You fucking whore, how dare you touch him while he is defenseless, if I ever see you do that again, I will rip out your heart and feed it to Steve!"

Cameron made a strange terrified sound, and ran out the room, probably to cry on Chase's shoulder, or blab her mouth to Cuddy, too get him fired. But he couldn't care less, with a heartbreaking sob, he collapsed in the chair, and when Chase ten minutes later came to "whoop his ass", as he so coolly told his lady love when he left her, he just quietly backed out, tears stinging his eyes and a deep sadness filling his heart by the sight in front of him. The calm and patient doctor Wilson, the very picture of respectability, who never once had entered the hospital doors in an unironed shirt, was lying on the hospital bed. He was clutching his closest friend as close as he could, face buried in the other mans chest, producing throaty sounds and whining gasps, so filled with despair and hopelessness, that the young aussie felt his heart shatter at the sight.

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Liked it? Hated it? Wish to kill med too release the world from the horror that is my writing? Please let me know. Reviews are a great way to pass those boring, mindnumbing minutes that a life makes. 


	5. Chapter 5

So, here we are again. Hope you will like, even though its slightly on the short side.

And I do still not own House, and I am starting to lose hope and beginning to think I never will.

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_Chapter 5  
Frozen happiness  
_

_House couldn't remember ever being this cold. The freezing winter wind chilled him to his core. He was shaking so badly, it looked like he as dancing a horrible spazzy dance, his teeth drumming out the rhythm. He looked around, and found himself alone, surrounded by white. And slowly he started moving across the dead frozen landscape, limping, even though his leg was pain free his unconscious could no longer remember how to move in graceful strides._

_As he walked, he could feel the size of his body diminishing, his mind moving backwards in time and soon he was running, a happy carefree thirteen year old boy. A feeling of happiness filled his entire being. Freedom. Joy. Love._

_Not even the memory of his destroyed limb entered his mind as he enjoyed this unexpected freedom, some happiness at last. He took big leaps, sprinting easily trough the snow. He sometimes fell, but always got up on his feet, without problems, the cold snow that with each fell entered his jacked, melted away, and did nothing too affect his non-stopping laughter._

_But everything stopped in a heartbeat, as he fell to his knees, one whispered painful word escaping his dry, frozen lips; "No!"_

_He reached out his long white fingers too touch the hand lying alone in the snow. The hand of a five year old, frozen in a half-closed fist, witnessing the child's agony filled cramps as the sharp tool chopped down._

_He picked up the frozen hand, got too his feet, and walked onwards, gently cradling the small limb in his gawky teenage arms. He walked like a man who knew his impending doom was lurking right around the corner. He knew what was waiting ahead, just as well as he knew the handle of his cane, every wear and tear and memory etched into the polished wood._

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Wilson had, for the moment, ceased his crying. Now he was just lying still, on top of the man who filled his life with so much distress, but even more happiness. Clutching the hospital shirt in his shaking fingers, he was never going to let go, ever. He would stay here forever, etched to House.

He felt the presence, before he heard the ominous sound of high heels stopping right beside the bed. _The concerned dean, out for a walk, showing the twins around the hospital, _House's voice said dryly in his mind. He chuckled madly, louder than appropriate for a respectable doctor, clutching his comatose best friend.

He could actually hear the tears in her sad sigh, as she leaned down and gently touched his back.

"Wilson… James, don't you think its time get up. You've been here for more than five days. You are not doing yourself, nor him, any good. What do you think House will do when he wakes up to find out that you are so exhausted from your wake, you can't cook his food, nor do his laundry and dishes."

Her attempt at humour was an idle try, as under her palm she could feel him inhaling sharply, like he was stopping himself from exploding in her face. His voice was coarse, two days of constant crying, and the bare minimum of fluids hadn't done it any good.

"I will not leave him. I cant bear the thought of him waking up too find himself all alone, and I wont stay away from him. I need him close to me, I need to feel the beating of his heart, and the sound of his lungs filling and emptying again, and again. I need to feel that he is still inn there, an inappropriate joke on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be released. I need to feel that he is not dead. I_will_ stay, and you can't say, or do, anything, too make me change my mind!"

The last few words were almost impossible to distinguish as he ended the sentence in a desperate screech. Cuddy felt a pang of sorrow from seeing two of her friends in such a desperate condition. She wished with all her heart that House would awake, both for his sake, and his friend's.

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Thats it for now. Hope it was somewhat enjoyable. Let me know it you found it so (enjoyable, I mean), or not. 


	6. Chapter 6

Well, here we go again. I do not know how good this chapter is, my new medicine is making me a little drowsy and my brain a rather strange place too be. Hope it doesnt suck too badly.

I do not own House, I just wish he was my doctor, mine is a complete idiot.

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_Chapter 6  
Halfway to happiness  
_

_He could not move. He was as frozen as the wind howling about his body. He stared at the horror in front of him with eyes red and full of despair. His baby sister lying in the spoiled snow surrounded by her own blood. She looked like a child forming an angel in the now pink snow, her arms and legs spread. But her left arm ended morbidly where her cute pink little hand should have been, and her legs not spread in joy and play, but with blood darkly between them and baby blue Cinderella panties ripped of and tossed carelessly aside._

_He remembers the care with which their mother had dressed her beautiful baby girl that morning. He remembered the excitement in his sister's eyes, as she got ready to go to the carnival with uncle Bobby. He remembered his beautiful sister, dressed in a pink little dress, small black shoes and a purple winter coat, hugging him tightly whispering in his ear:_

"_I wish you could come with Greg. I'm gonna miss you badly, but I know you haft to play in the game tonight. They are never gonna win without you, you are the best!"_

"_I wish I could go too, butterfly, but you are gonna have a great time with uncle Bobby. And I promise too score a goal for you!"_

_He remembered letting her go, and watching her walking hand in hand with their mothers brother. Than he had to run, not wanting to be late for his game of Lacrosse._

_He had in fact scored a goal for his sister, and several more after that one, and after the game, he ran home to tell her that he had in fact won the game. Tonight was gonna be great. Their were gonna have a family dinner, with lots of good food since Bobby had to leave early the next morning. And his dad had promised to teach him a new fighting trick, that he had longed to learn since he saw some soldiers training._

_But now he was standing next to the crippled, raped body of his butterfly, uncle Bobby lying close by, his face buried in the snow, and his bull like neck hacked open with the same ax that had mutilated his sister. He finally moved, falling on his knees at the side of the small gelid body. He traced his fingers down her face, untouched by violence, tears melting the snow. He then lifted her up, and started the long dreary walk too their army base house. As he took his first stumbling step, the wind perished and small flakes started drizzling from the sky, and the only thing disturbing the silence in which a boy carried the heaviest burden he would ever bear, was the church bells sounding 7 times with a heavy clangs._

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Wilson was confused as to why he was on the balcony between his and House's offices. He remembered how he got there, but had no idea as to why.

He remembered the hand on his shoulder, yanking him from his buddy, he remembered the dragging of his body through the hospital hallways, with nurses and coworkers throwing shocking glances at his uncooperative stance. He even remembered the raspy voice in his ear, as he was cruelly dragged from the sleeping man. And yet, he could not recall the words that were whispered.

And now he was sitting in a cold plastic chair, staring not at the frozen trees surrounding the hospital car park, nor the millions of glittering stars that made a beautiful December night. Into the cold, empty air, he was staring, trying to remember those faithful words that started the incidents making him stranded out in the dreary winter night.

He had no idea if he had been sitting there long, when Cuddy yanked open the door, and rushed too him.

"James, are you all right? I had security remove him. He wont bother you again."

Her voice was determined and fierce. Ever since the horrible shooting incident involving House, she had been adamant about security issues, and the fact that someone once again had been able too put hands upon one of her doctors, had made her furious and left her uncertain about her abilities as dean. It didn't matter that the man hurting her friend was who he was, and that he had every right too be in that room.

"I'm fine!"

He replied passively, not really caring about himself at the time.

"I am so sorry, James. He had no right too say that too you. And since Brenda was standing close by, she heard it all. And now its all over the hospital. I am sorry, when I heard what happened, it was to late to do something, and I just rushed here to get you, and..."

Some emotion at last entered Wilson's face, and he interrupted her tirade:

"What did he say?"

Cuddy got a strange look in her eyes, as she started mumbling and stuttering, clearly uncertain as to how to answer his question.

But Wilson had no patience for her withholding:

"What did he say, Cuddy? Tell me at once, what did he fucking say?"

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Liked, hated it, want me executed for doing this to you? Please let me know! 


	7. Chapter 7

The longest chapter yet, I think. You can take that as bad or good news as you like.

I do not own House MD, but from this day on; I do indeed own my very own knee brace, that goes perfic with my lovely black cane.

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_Chapter 7  
The words of a mother  
_

_He had long since learned to conceal his crying. Burying his head deep into his pillow, strangling mournful, agonizing sobs. But sometimes the sound of his moaning was so loud it could not be stopped. And sometimes he did not care. He just lay in darkness waiting for the strict sound of his father's military steps. Waiting for the belt to be released, and with no other warning than a inhale from the man standing in shadows beside his bed, struck hard and fast against the young boy. He sometimes screamed, even though that would just infuriate the beating arm, and make the lashing even harder and faster._

_Sometimes he embraced the torture, every strike, every painful whip, taking his mind further, and further away from the torment that was reality. And when it ended, the boy would smile, long ago had he learned that the only thing that took pain away was pain._

_And now House lay there, in his childhood bed, crying stronger and harder than he ever had before. This time he knew that the beating arm would not come. Father was away on a trip for the army, for the first time in the three months following his sister's death. He wept freely, this time no pain to free him from his own suffering mind, just a boy weeping alone._

_Then he heard the footsteps. The small petite sound emerging from beneath his mother's slipper clad feet. Beside his still red and swollen body, signs of the goodbye beating from his Father, his mother sat down on the side of the mattress. He half expected her to put a gentle hand on his back, the comfort only a mother could give. But she had neither touched him, nor talked to him, since he failed to watch his baby sister._

_The sound of her voice swiftly filled his heart with hope, bit it died just as quickly as the words filled his mind, with loud painful bangs. The whispered words pained him even more than the belt flecking of his soft white skin._

"_I do not hate you, you know. I just don't think I am able to love you no more. That day you came home with my beautiful girl in your arms, everything inside me died. I know you are not to be blamed, but I do, blame you, even though I know it to be wrong. You have always been such a difficult child, causing trouble and sorrows. She was a perfect angel, and she was taken away. I sometimes lie awake at night wishing for you to be gone instead of her."_

_She took a deep breath, any other would have believed that it was all she could do too keep herself from crying, but Gregory knew better, he had heard Father make the same sound many a time before. It was not to keep herself from crying, but to keep herself from hitting him, smashing in his face, releasing her sorrow into violence. Gregory almost wanted her to do it; the pain from a belt across the back was way better than this quiet torture. But she continued, like she sensed his dread and wanted him to suffer._

"_But you stayed, not even this time could you do the right thing, die for your sister. And for the rest of your life you will live with the knowledge that her heart stopped beating instead of yours. That your miserable life was left alone, while your wonderful sister was tortured and raped, waiting for her brother to come save her, cos you promised to protect her, and you failed. Even if you for the rest of your life try to reach up to her level, even if you spend the rest of your life too try and relieve your self from guilt, you never will. You are doomed too spend the rest of you life in her shadow, Gregory, and you will suffer for it."_

_The mother left, and the boy was alone. And since that night, he never cried again, and now he knew how gruesome pain could be, how much a person who was supposed too love you, could hurt you. How a person he trusted, and loved, could betray that trust, without killing the love, and that hurt even more. Since that night, his heart would be forever numb, and he knew that he would be forever alone._

* * *

Wilson was again sitting in the dreaded chair beside House's bed, staring at his friend, clutching his IV-less hand, and pondering upon the words that had turned his view on his closest friend upside down. He could not believe it, could not find it too be true. But it would explain a lot about his friend. The strange behavior. The odd comments. Maybe it was so.

No, he could not think this of his friend, not while he rested so deeply beside him. It could not be his friend who lay so innocently sleeping, like a newborn child, with no guilt and hatred to be found. His beautiful friend, who could play the piano like a god, and always seemed to Wilson too be larger than life itself, and larger even than death. This wonderful man, who spent so much time saving lives, and giving back function to those who had been robbed of them.

But still he could not help to wonder about the word Greg's father had so cruelly whispered into his ears.

"He doesn't deserve your love and care, he is a murderous beast, who in jealousy killed my daughter. Get away from him, and start praying to God that this pitiful miscreant are removed from the world!"

But Wilson could not do that, he stayed at his friends side, and did what he had promised Stacy after the infarction, what he had promised Cuddy after every stupid stunt House pulled, and promised himself every single second, and every breath since he met Greg: he would never leave this strong, fragile, wonderful bastard alone.

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Liked it? Hated it? It made you wanna stick a knife in a electrical socket? Please let me know. Constructive criticism is extremely welcome, I love to improve my wriring skills. 


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8  
And the words from a father  
_

_Since the day his mother had revealed her not-hatred to him, he spent his day trying to make her happy. He would draw pink flowers and princesses, just like his sister would. Braid the hair of her dolls, and paint her pretty ponies with glitter and gold. He would wander round the house in a tiara and a pink skirt, the only two thing of the costume her could force on his long lanky body. Than he would dance singing around the house._

_But every time Mother saw his happy dancing, she made a face of disgust, and Father would grow red. And she would wash the ponies, and hide the dolls, and the drawings she burned. And every night the silent drum of Fathers boots would enter his bedroom and rip the very skin of him._

_He did not go too school at this time, he actually did not even know in which country they currently resided. For three months this madness and torture continued, until one day when he lay sleeping, for once not beaten and whipped, and Father silently crept into the bedroom, a small knife in his right hand. He quickly put the other hand across the sleeping boys mouth, and the boy awoke with a muffled scream._

_Father leaned his cleanly shaven face so close to the boy's, that their noses nearly touched, and the boy could smell the whisky on his fathers face. He tried to struggle free, but was only rewarded with a sharp knife pressed against his throat and angry words whispered too him, which only drowned in a cloud of fear._

_He was frightened into a frozen position, and did not move, nor scream, when Father released his mouth and slowly started to let his hand glide down the boy's body. He ripped the pajama pants of his offspring, and started whispering again, and this time the boy's head was so clear of terror that every word felt like a shard of ice into his heart. And the words came gently, loving even, and that scared the boy more than anything._

"_So, you want to be a girl, ey. You know what girls like, don't you? They like boys. Do you like boys, kid? You know what, I think you do. I see it in your face."_

_And with those words, he gently let his big hands surround his son's still small penis. He then gently started to stroke the boy, and the boy could not stop the erection._

_Father smirked at him._

"_I knew it, you are a little faggot arent you? You love it, you sick little pervert. You don't deserve to walk around with a dick, you are a disgrace to men."_

_Than he slowly released the knife from the boy's throat and gently let it stroke down his son's body till it reached the still stiff penis._

"_You know what, since you so desire to be your mothers new daughter, I can help you. If I cut it of, I can make her love you again, and you will both be happy!"_

_He let the knife glide down the penis, as panic made it soft again. He penetrated the skin by the shaft, and started a small laceration towards the very tip._

_The boy started to whimper, and the man laughed._

"_If you tell me too, I will do it. Cut it of and make you a girl. You want to make your mother happy, want you? See her smile again. Say that she love you? Don't you want that, little faggot? Give your mother back the happiness she deserves? You do love her do you not? If you do not do this, it will be like saying that you do not love her, that you despise everything she ever did to you, that you hate her!"_

_With these words he started to cut deeper, and he could feel the boy shaking. He could almost feel the extreme concentration coming from the boy in waves. The pain must be intense._

_Greg didn't even feel an inch of pleasure from this agony. But he could do this for his mother. He did love her. But when he felt the knife cut even deeper, he could help himself no more. With a suffering scream, he escaped the knife, grabbing a pillow and pressing it hard against his throbbing groin._

"_No," he whimpered, more to himself than to Father. The disappointment in himself was horrible. Did he really not love his mother? _

"_No, don't do it. I can't bear it. Stop it, go away, and don't look at me."_

_Father laughed and exited the room, but couldn't help releasing one final blow to the boy:_

"_I knew it! I knew you weren't capable of sacrifice, you just couldn't do this one thing for your mother. Couldn't bear the pain. Fucking wuss, why can't you just kill yourself?"_

_He closed the door with a bang, and once again the boy was left alone with agonizing sorrow, and a soul in turmoil. But he did not cry. Not from the pain, nor the sorrow, not even the shame. He locked those feelings away, not to be felt again except from in his dreams._

* * *

Wilson awoke suddenly. The room was dark, but the sun shone through a window and revealed half of his friends face. It took some time before he realized what was different, but then he saw, his eyes were closed. It unnerved him slightly after seeing those big blue eyes constantly closed for more than six days. Than he felt dread washing over him, what if House was dead. What if he had died during the night, and he hadn't stopped it, even after swearing to protect him.

He rested his hand briefly on his friend chest, and then he was overcome with joy as he felt the beating of the heart, and the breathing lungs. Than he leaned down to stare at the unmoving face, and sorrow now filled him as he saw the tears running down his friend's cheeks. House was crying. He softly dried them away with his gentle hands.

"Why are you crying, Greg. Wake up and tell me please. I need too know why you suffer so. I want to help you, relieve you from the pain and misery. Wake up, I need you here with me, I can't live without you, I love you!"

With those words House's eyes sprung open, and in them Wilson saw a myriad of emotions: _sorrow, hate, dread, despair, grief, pain and…_

With words coarse and dry from days without water, House made his friend feel calm for the first time in almost a week:

"Hah, I knew you were gay, no straight man owns a hairdryer. And get me some water, I'm dying here!"

Wilson rushed to the table and got some water, his heart swimming with joy from finally having his bestest buddy back.

…_and love?_

* * *

__

House is now awake. I am considering to end it there. What do you people think?


	9. Chapter 9

Hello again. I decided to write some more on this. At least two chapters after this.

If you feel that Wilson is a little ooc in this one, remember that he is tired, bitter and emotionally exhausted.

House MD is not mine by the way, but Buzz Aldrin, secound man on the moon, told me to shut up and sit down, and I chose too see that as a sign that the man in the moon told him that House MD was soon going to be mine.

* * *

Chapter 9

How to fall alone

A day had passed, and House had said nothing since he awoke. Wilson had continued to sit at his side, making small talk and starring. He could not believe that House was awake, even if he was not talking. A couple of times he had fallen asleep, and Wilson felt panic rising in his chest every time, but mostly he was reassured by House's gentle snoring. But three times House lay so still, that Wilson had too shake him awake, just to be sure.

A day had passed, and House had been lying there, thinking about the dreams. The memories that had come too the surface of his mind, and blanked out everything else. He could not look at Wilson, who he knew had been there all this time, right by his side, watching him, seeing him weak and vulnerable. That hurt almost as much as the dreams and hurt and sorrow. Knowing that he no longer was Wilson's rock, the only steadfast harbour in a sea of lovers and wives.

He turned slowly to his best friend, who seemed surprised by the sudden movement. He stared him directly into his eyes for some time, till Wilson seemed uneased and turned away.

"Jimmy", House whispered, with his still course and uneven voice.

"Yes, Greg, what is it? Something wrong? Are you hurting?"

Wilson's voice was so full of concern it made House cringe and started to hate his friend, for no longer being his friend, but an guardian angel or a mother House certainly did not need. If Wilson no longer was a buddy, his drinking and pizza pal, the dude to watch football with, if he was something more. If he now was House's rock, he could not trust him anymore. Cos if he loved and trusted Wilson, let him into his carefully guarded mind, Wilson would betray him, leave him, hurt him, just like everyone else he ever loved.

"Jimmy. Go away. What are you doing here in the first place? I don't want you here.

And you stink, your very presence is pestering me, get away, and if you come back I will call security."

Wilson looked stricken by this, and fell together like the spineless slime House found him to be.

"If you so wish, House. I will go then, and leave you to your misery. Maybe your dad was right after all, you do not deserve my love and friendship!"

His voice reeked of contempt and House almost lost his courage.

"You are right, Jimmy, my father is right. So leave now, and be relieved of my presence!"

Jimmy left, not looking back, and if he had, he would have seen House's eyes, wide-open and struck with terror and fear. Had he looked back, he would have returned with speed, holding his best friend in his arms and never left again. But even if had looked back, he would not have seen the terror House saw.

* * *

_He was falling. Wind drumming about him, ripping him to pieces. There was no one there, just him, falling alone, naked in the darkness. He started crying then, he could live with the dark, cold world, the unfairness of it all, the pain, but not alone, not alone._

_He had always known what life would be; a rapid run through darkness, never being able see the paths in front of you, just the crossroads where you had to choose. No way to see which road was right. And more often then not, he had chosen wrong, since his lot in life was to suffer, to be in pain. He had chosen Stacy away, chosen not to go with his sister on that faithful day, he had chosen the pain in his leg. And now he chosen away Wilson, even though this time, he could see the road I front of him, the lonesome path he would limp along for the rest of his existence._

_He was falling. Wind drumming about him, faster and faster he fell. But no longer alone, a hand had gripped his, and now they were falling together, naked in the darkness. He started crying then, he could live with the dark cold world, the unfairness of it all, the pain, now that he was no longer alone._

_He had understood what life could be, the day he met James Evan Wilson. He was running in darkness, rapid rounds on a field at night. He always loved running in darkness, the feeling you got not being able to see clearly, not knowing when you could trip, the risks of it all. Long strong leaps he took, feeling with every harboured breath, the joy that was life. And suddenly he did trip, on a broken branch. He braced himself for the painful meeting with the ground, but it never came. A strong hand gripped his, dragged him up, holding him till he again was stable. And since that moment, when he met Jimmy, they would always run together, on the fields at night, always feeling like they could to this for the rest of their existence._

_He was falling, wind drumming about him, ripping him to pieces. He felt his skin falling of, his eyes bleeding from the steadingly increasing speed. But he did not care about the pain, until he felt the most important piece of his existence breaking of, the hand in his glipped, and fell away. And again, he was falling alone, naked in the darkness. He started crying then, he had felt how it was not to be alone in the dark, cold world, the unfairness of it, the pain, and now he was alone again, and this time he would be forever alone._

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Liked it? Hated it? Made you want to be hungover, because the pain of to much appletinis is actually better than this chapter? Please review, and make a young sick cripple happy! 


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